& the men—they desire you to falter:
Be a shabby loser, a con-man or a spiteful doer
Then they can press on you, ‘I know this is going to happen.’
I’m smart beyond compare!
But such men—- they seem not understand—
Poets- scribble things & even that don’t mean—
Well, I want to mean: no matter how we write about rivers & trees & flowers
The same way we choose to embrace &/or f**k them every day—
Make sense so little; after all dreams are chosen & woven by all of us;
Our souls are in our hands.
Still these men with their m_n_a_ illness have become “too cleverly presumptuous” for poets.
So we let them smile.
SMILE ‘til their mouths tear apart.